


The Adventure of the Angel Detective

by MostWeakHamlets



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 19th Century, Christmas fic, M/M, Sherlock Holmes - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:56:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27919345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MostWeakHamlets/pseuds/MostWeakHamlets
Summary: 1892. Crowley can't think of a gift worthy of giving to Aziraphale.Fortunately, he's not above a little petty crime to make his angel feel like his favorite detective for an evening.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 51
Collections: Aziraphale's Library Festive Fic Recs, Celestial Harmonies: Cider & Cocoa





	The Adventure of the Angel Detective

**Author's Note:**

> I love Sherlock Holmes. 
> 
> Written for the Celestial Harmonies' Cider & Cocoa zine.

_1892_

“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, old boy. I just hadn’t had time to read the newest story.” 

Aziraphale sat his magazine on his desk with a satisfied smile. Crowley slipped his sunglasses onto his nose. 

“How’d he do it this time?” 

Aziraphale’s eyes were bright. “Well, it’s about a racehorse gone missing and a murdered trainer. And you know how it goes. Someone was arrested, but Holmes doesn’t think it adds up. The horse can’t be found, and the man who was arrested doesn’t have much use for the horse.

“And—oh, this is the best part—Holmes knows that it couldn’t have been him because the dog on the grounds didn’t make any noise in the nighttime. It would have barked if a stranger were around the stables. The thief had to have been someone the dog knew. So, it was the dead trainer who was trying to steal the horse. And it was the horse that killed the trainer—kicked his head in. You’ll have to let me read this to you some time. It’s one of the finest stories yet.” 

Nothing excited Aziraphale like the Sherlock Holmes stories did. Every time a new adventure was published in _The Strand,_ he ate it up and told Crowley about it for days until he caught himself rambling and apologized, blushing. 

But Crowley adored how Aziraphale spoke about the stories. He liked the twinkle in Aziraphale’s eyes and his excited talking. He liked how Aziraphale could lose himself talking about the little details of the characters and plots. And when the stories were bound and printed and sent out to bookshops, it was like Christmas for the angel. He proudly displayed them in his windows and, for once, allowed his customers to buy up every copy (with, of course, one set aside for his personal collection). 

“You’ll need more than just your jacket, angel. It’s cold out.” 

Speaking of Christmas, the holiday was only a week away. The ground was coated in a very fine layer of snow (that would no doubt melt by that afternoon). The air was frigid, and Crowley’s cheeks had stung on his walk to the bookshop. It was the weather that Aziraphale loved but Crowley could do without. 

He had thought about escaping to the Mediterranean for the season. Somewhere to escape all the holiday cheer that went around London. But Aziraphale had asked if they could spend Christmas together and even hinted that he had a gift hiding somewhere in the shop waiting for him. Crowley could hardly say no. Especially with the promise of a gift. 

Aziraphale wrapped his scarf around his neck and pulled his gloves over his hands to complete his off-white ensemble. He flipped the store sign to “closed” on their way out. 

Crowley gripped the head of his walking stick as they walked through the dusting of snow. Thinking of whatever Aziraphale had gotten him for Christmas was nerve-wracking (yet exciting, since Crowley loved a good gift). The angel was so damn thoughtful. He probably bought Crowley a nice, new pair of sunglasses that wouldn’t rub against his nose or a new coat that would keep him warm. Maybe even a scarf, commissioned by the finest knitter in London with the finest wool. 

Usually, they didn’t celebrate holidays. They didn’t hold much meaning for supernatural beings, but Aziraphale had been swept up further and further into Christmas as the decades went on. The year before, he had gifted Crowley a new pair of gloves. They were lined with fleece and kept his bony fingers delightfully warm. They were the nicest things Crowley had ever received, and yet Aziraphale said that they were “not much” and that he’d “do better next year.” 

The pressure to get Aziraphale a gift was crushing Crowley every day. Nothing he could think of was enough for the angel, who deserved a world full of the finest goods. 

He could pay for a trip somewhere. Take Aziraphale to the continent for a week. Or maybe take him to a bookstore like his and offer to buy him as much as he could carry out the door. 

Whatever it was, it had to be better than anything Aziraphale would ever give him. 

* * *

Crowley had an idea. 

He sat in front of his list of gift options for Aziraphale, and it clicked. Petty crime.

Aziraphale was so enamored with Doyle’s stories and spoke so openly about how much he admired Holmes’s wits that he had to secretly fancy himself a detective in his own right. 

Crowley’s cheeks heated up thinking about Aziraphale wiggling at the chance to flex his deduction skills. No doubt he would jump at the chance to investigate a small crime—where no one was hurt of course. 

Crowley began to set it up. He would need actors and the perfect crime. Maybe a stolen brooch. Or a small theft of a neighboring store in Soho. What was the winter story that Doyle had written? A precious gem shoved down the throat of a goose being fattened for Christmas dinner? 

On his shelf, barely touched, sat a printed copy of _The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes._ He had bought it from Aziraphale when they first arrived. It was the very first one out of the box. Crowley snagged it, said he wanted to see what the fuss was about, and dropped a few coins in Aziraphale’s till. He had yet to read further than the first five pages. But that night, he picked it up and settled in his chair, and began reading the first story for inspiration. And then the second. And then the third. And by the time he finished the book, the sun was high in the sky.

* * *

Christmas Eve, Crowley picked up a goose and carried it to Aziraphale’s shop. 

“Oh, dear, don’t drag it through the front,” Aziraphale said, eyebrows drawn up. “You’ll leave feathers everywhere. Take it up to the flat, and I’ll be right there.” 

Crowley didn’t enjoy carrying it through the shop, either. It was limp in his hand, and the body thumped against his legs on the way up the stairs. 

He tossed it onto the kitchen table and peaked out the window. There was only half an hour left before Aziraphale’s gift would be in place. 

Finally, Aziraphale came upstairs. He smiled at Crowley, as usual, and traded his jacket for a cardigan before setting his eyes on the goose. 

“Oh, you got a fat one!” 

Crowley nodded. He had picked up the fattest goose he could find, partaking in a little gluttony and greed himself. Sure, it would be better suited on the table of a family of five, but Crowley wanted the opportunity to see Aziraphale brighten at the sight of it. 

“Mind if we have a drink before we cook it?” 

Aziraphale grabbed sherry glasses, and Crowley strolled over to the small window to take his permanent seat. He could see the first actor, by the name of Jim, take position. He was dressed in ill-fitting clothes of a cobbler, borrowed from a local theatre, and stood under a street lamp across the street. The foot traffic and carriages were thinning out as much as they would for a Soho evening. 

“You wouldn’t believe how many people came in today looking for last-minute gifts.” Aziraphale handed a glass to Crowley. “I told them that they weren’t going to find anything in my shop. Everything recent has been whisked off the shelves since last week, and I wouldn’t trust anything else to someone who waits until Christmas Eve to buy a present.”

Crowley hummed. Mrs. Mabel, who owned the flower shop across the street, peeked outside. She was a delightful woman who was more than happy to participate in Crowley’s premeditated mystery. She fancied herself an actress in her younger days, she told Crowley, and quite liked Mr. Fell. 

“What are you looking at, dear?” 

“Huh?”

“What are you looking at?” Aziraphale pressed against Crowley and looked out the window. 

“Uh… just… people-watching. Lots of opportunity for sin tonight, you know.” 

“I doubt _that._ ” 

“Why? You just had to shove people out.” 

“It’s a holiday. Everyone’s generous and full of kindness and love. You can feel it all over the city.” 

“Maybe _you_ can.” 

Aziraphale turned back to the goose. “You can, too. Don’t try to deny it.” 

The traffic on the streets thinned out.

 _Right on time_ , Crowley thought as his third actor, who would go by Worth, strolled up to the flower shop and began pounding on the door. His shouts could be heard from Aziraphale’s flat. 

“What’s going on?” Aziraphale asked. 

“Some drunk being loud.” 

Jim calmly walked up to Worth and put his hand on his shoulder. It was shoved off just as planned. Mrs. Mabel opened the door, turned Worth away before returning inside, and locked her shop behind her. 

“Looks like you’re not the only being pestered by late shoppers.” 

Aziraphale peeked outside to watch Worth pace the sidewalk and Jim return to his spot under the streetlight. He hummed. Crowley tucked his left hand out of sight, his fingers positioned for a snap, and held his breath. The next few minutes were crucial for him. 

Worth began pounding again. Bystanders took no notice. Jim tried intervening, one more time. 

“Fuck,” Crowley mumbled right as Worth swung and clipped Jim on the jaw. 

Aziraphale returned to watch Worth pick up a rock on the side of the street and chuck it through the window display. He gasped in horror. 

Crowley snapped and all police constables heard and saw nothing. The street significantly thinned out as everyone about to turn down it realized that they had forgotten a package at a store about to close or that they really must turn around and get home before it gets any darker. Any bystanders still around looked over their shoulders at the smashed glass but didn’t register what they had witnessed. 

“We need to do something!” Aziraphale said. 

“Police can handle it, angel. And that man is there.” One more swing and Jim collapsed against the storefront. “Okay. Maybe he isn’t.” 

“Poor Mrs. Mabel must be terrified.” 

Aziraphale rushed out of the kitchen. Crowley only raced after once another miracle ensured that no one saw Worth climb in through the window. 

“Angel!” Crowley cried as he ran down the stairs and through the bookshop. The angel could move fast when he wanted to. And when he believed that he needed to. “Wait for me!” 

Crowley threw his coat and hat on and followed Aziraphale into the street. 

He watched Azirpahale very nearly miss getting run over by a carriage and cursed under his breath. The damn angel was supposed to be having a good night not getting run over by horses. 

Worth ran off with a basket tucked under his arm just as Aziraphale was approaching. Crowley knew that he would take a left and disappear in a convenient crowd of people and wait at a vacant flat Crowley rented out for the night. 

“Are you alright?” Aziraphale asked Jim, helping him to his feet. “That was a nasty spat.” 

“I think so.” Jim touched his hand to his head. 

“Crowley, be a dear. Climb in and check on Mrs. Mabel? And maybe unlock the door so we can get our friend inside.” 

Crowley sneered at the sharp glass that didn’t dare rip his trousers or scuff his boots. He stepped up onto the display case and jumped down. Mrs. Mabel, standing in the middle of the shop, winked at him and covered her mouth with her hands.

“She’s okay!” Crowley called out. 

He raised the gas and opened the door to a very worried Aziraphale.

“Oh, let him come in. I saw the whole ordeal,” Mrs. Mabel said. Her eyebrows were creased and her voice shook. Crowley had to give her credit for her acting. “Did he hit you terribly hard?”

“Not too hard, ma’am.” 

Worth didn’t hit him at all.

Aziraphale led him to a chair and insisted that Mrs. Mabel take a seat as well. Crowley shivered as a breeze swept through the broken window. He wished he had his gloves and scarf. 

“Did he harm you, Mrs. Mabel?” Aziraphale said. “What did he take?”

“He only took one of my larger arrangements. It was right over there.” She pointed at the table against the wall. Flowers were strewn over the floor. “He ran back out in the blink of an eye. Didn’t even look at me.” 

“He was pacing like a puma outside,” Jim said. “He wanted in desperately. I heard him say to you—Mrs. Mabel was it? Pleased to meet your acquaintance—I heard him say to you that he needed in for only a second. Only to buy one thing, and then he’d be out of your hair.” 

“I should have just let him in.” Mrs. Mabel pressed her hand to her cheek, which Crowley thought was overkill. “I should have just let him buy it—that basket was one of my most expensive. Now I’m out nearly seven pounds.” 

She was not, in fact, out seven pounds. Crowley had bought that arrangement earlier that day when he told her that it would most likely be roughed up in their scheme. It only just dawned on him, standing in the drafty shop, that he could have asked her to set out a decoy of wilted flowers and maybe a broken basket she had been meaning to throw out.

Aziraphale looked at the table and strolled over, his lips pursed. He looked over the displays, gently checking them. 

“He must have known what he wanted,” Aziraphale said, looking back at the window some distance away. “Otherwise he would have grabbed the first thing he could grab. And who robs a florist for their flowers? I hope you don’t take offense, Mrs. Mabel, but surely the money in your till is worth more than an arrangement he’ll squash in his arms on his way out. And there must be other florists open in London to go to if he was so desperate.” 

“You’re quite the Sherlock Holmes, aren’t you?” Crowley asked. 

He caught a smile appear on Aziraphale’s face for a second. A second was all Crowley needed to feel secure in continuing. 

Aziraphale composed himself. “I’m just merely… making observations.”

“What else do you observe?” Crowley asked. 

“Well,” Aziraphale walked over to the smashed window, arms folded behind his back, “he had to have targeted this shop. For whatever reason, he wasn’t going to stop at anything to get inside. Think about it. There’s a florist on every street corner. He must have passed a few before he got here. And surely not every single one was closed. I know that Mrs. Mabel only closes early in winter because her arthritis objects to the cold.” 

Mrs. Mabel nodded. “I was about to warm myself up with a hot fire.” 

“So, why smash a window for a basket?” Crowley asked. 

Aziraphale blinked. He lifted his chin and cleared his throat. “I don’t know.”

“Yet.” 

Aziraphale nodded and then his brow furrowed. “Shouldn’t the police have come? Hasn’t anyone noticed the ruckus?” 

“Uh… they’re probably busy,” Crowley said. “With kids causing trouble and all that since they have school off tomorrow.” 

“What would they even do?” Mrs. Mabel asked. “Tell me that an old woman such as myself shouldn’t be living and managing a business on my own? Write a note of what happened and then never catch the man?”

Crowley would have to shake her hand after such a performance. It tugged on Aziraphale’s heartstrings for sure for he sighed and his shoulders slumped. 

“No one would put even a fraction of the thought you’ve already put in, Mr. Fell,” she said. 

And that was what sold it, Crowley was sure. It was the same theme as the Holmes series. A man who put in more care and effort into solving crime than the police would. A man who devoted his life to righting the justice system. 

“I know that we were about to prepare dinner, old boy,” Aziraphale said. “But I do believe I have to prioritize Mrs. Mabel’s case—er, her predicament—before eating. I think I’ll spend some time here and around town to try to find the man.” 

Crowley smiled. “Mind if I join?” 

Aziraphale’s face brightened. “You would come with me?” 

“Like your very own Watson.” 

Aziraphale attempted to school his features but failed. “Mrs. Mabel, Mr.—I’m sorry I didn’t get your name.” 

“Howard, sir.” 

“Mr. Howard. Please, sit in my shop while we go out. It’s warmer inside than it is in here.” 

“Oh, thank you, Mr. Fell.” 

“Thank you kindly, sir.” 

“We shan’t be long.” 

Aziraphale and Crowley returned to grab more outer layers and their walking sticks and to settle Mrs. Mabel and “Mr. Howard” in the front room. Aziraphale brewed a pot of coffee in a miraculously short time (he insisted that it was already brewed when the disturbance began) and took a moment to thank Jim for helping when no one else would and to tell him that God would reward him. Something in Jim’s eyes made Crowley turn his back and wrinkle his nose. He adored his angel, but the little salvations Aziraphale promised made him physically recoil. It wasn’t anything that could be helped. It was his nature.

Aziraphale asked for a general description of the man, and they left. The usual crowd was out again. 

“Where are we going?” Crowley asked. 

“Oh… well…” Aziraphale looked around the street. “I suppose we should go back to the shop and look around. See if anything can be found.” 

Crowley snapped his fingers behind his back as they crossed the street. A torn shred of a jacket pocket would be found amongst the glass and on the floor would be a few shillings and a business card. They were waiting, perfectly, for Aziraphale to see them in the low light.

“Let’s see what we have here.” Aziraphale stepped through the broken glass with Crowley’s hand steadying him. He bent down and picked up the card with his handkerchief, mindful of the glass. “Can you read this for me, dear? I don’t have your eyes in this light.” 

“It says, ‘George F. Cushing. Barrister. 459, Suite C, Whitehall, Westminster, England.’” Crowley flipped it over. “There’s a note written on the back. It just says, ‘10 pm. No later. Knock loud.’” 

“Do you think we should go there?” Aziraphale asked. “10 pm isn’t for another two hours. If the man is going to meet someone there, we could be waiting for him.” 

“What do _you_ think?” 

Aziraphale tucked the card into his coat pocket. “I think it’s worth a try. It’s not too far from here if we can get a cab.” 

Crowley was already on the side of the road, extending his walking stick into the air. Cabs always stopped for him and sure enough one was pulling over within seconds. He held out his hand for Aziraphale as the angel climbed in.

They sat in silence for the entire drive. Undoubtedly, Aziraphale was deep in thought. Crowley could only imagine the excitement and anxiety spinning around in his head. He could see him worrying his walking stick, rubbing the silver hand against his gloved hand. But he could also see the determined furrow of his brow and the serious glint in his eye. 

It was the most confident he had ever seen Aziraphale. The nervous angel was now so certain in his actions and thoughts. It made Crowley’s chest feel a little tight. It made his stomach flip a little. 

Out of joy, he told himself. Aziraphale needed something to bring his spirits up. It had been a rough century full of ups and downs, and the novelty of the bookshop opening was beginning to wear off.

Most of it was due to the Holmes books, Crowley thought. He didn’t want to give himself too much credit. He would never have gotten Aziraphale out of his shell (even just for one night) without them. Maybe he could spare a miracle in favor of the Doyle guy. Make the books the most famous in all of Britain for centuries to come. It would benefit his angel greatly if he always had new people to discuss the books with. 

When their cab arrived, Aziraphale laid a generous payment in the drivers’ hand, receiving a cheerful “Merry Christmas!” in return. Crowley turned away from the holiday cheer and stood in front of the barrister’s door. 

“The lights are still on,” he said when Aziraphale was by his side. “Should we knock?” 

Aziraphale nodded but didn’t move. Crowley could see his confidence waver. 

“Go on, angel. What’s the worst he can do to us?”

“We don’t know if he’s working with that thief.” 

“We don’t know if he’s innocent, either.” 

Aziraphale steeled himself, squaring his shoulders, and stepped forward. He balled his hand into a fist and knocked firmly. Crowley knew that Mr. Cushing would be waiting by on the other side of the door, pockets lined with a heavy cheque Crowley had signed the day before. 

Cushing opened the door just wide enough to poke his head through. “What is it? I was just about to lock up—”

“Mr. Cushing, is it?” Aziraphale asked. 

“Yes?” 

“We’re here on _very_ urgent business, my good man. We’re sorry to disturb you, but there was a break-in nearby and your card was at the scene.” 

“My card?” 

“Yes. A business card. On the back, it says to come no later than 10 pm and to knock loudly. Do you know anything about this?”

Cushing blinked. With a sigh, he opened the door and stepped aside to let Aziraphale and Crowley in. He led them through the hallway, past the waiting room, and into his office. 

“I’m A.Z Fell. I have a bookshop in Soho.” Aziraphale took off his hat and held it close to his chest. He spoke with a directness that impressed Crowley. “And this is my colleague, Mr. Crowley. There’s a florist across the street from me, and it was burgled—somewhat. A man broke in through the display window and took a specific arrangement in the back of the shop. We’re trying to learn more about what happened, and the burglar dropped this right inside.” 

Aziraphale pulled the card from his pocket and handed it over. Cushing looked it over. He turned it around and, recognizing his own handwriting as planned, sat down heavily behind his desk. There was a moment of silence where Crowley worried that Cushing had forgotten the plan. He had the biggest part but had assured Crowley that he, too, was something of an actor in his youth. 

Crowley would have to keep tabs on current child actors just in case he wanted to recycle the idea in a few decades. 

“Do you remember who you gave it to?” he asked. 

“Please, gentlemen, take a seat, and I’ll tell you my story.” 

Just a dramatic pause then. Crowley shed his dramatic coat and gloves and eagerly sat down on the sofa across the room in preparation for the tale he knew he was about to hear. Aziraphale’s eyes were wide and attentive, directly across from Cushing. 

“I gave this card to a man by the name of David Worth. His brother was arrested earlier this week. He hadn’t been doing well. Financially, that is, and he has a wife and two little girls. Desperate men do desperate things, Mr. Fell. He tried to rob a flat. Neighbors heard the commotion and slipped out for police. He barely made it out the front door before a constable got him. 

“Now, I’m one of the finest in my field. I guaranteed the family I could get him acquitted. It was a petty thing he did, and police are over-eager to arrest. There was no property damage, and he didn’t even make out with anything. He felt too guilty to grab anything in the end. I could easily get him off with the minimum consequences. It was supposed to be such a small case.

“But you see, Mr. Worth’s brother was supposed to have his court hearing a week from now, and the judge decided yesterday that it would be pushed forward to be _two days_ from now. You’ll understand that I run a business. I can’t offer my services for free.” Cushing laughed nervously. “Mr. Worth hadn’t paid for his brother’s fees yet, and I told him that I would need the money by tonight if I were to continue on with his case.” 

“You threatened to drop his brother’s case on Christmas Eve?” 

“Mr. Fell, I have my own bills to pay. If I let one man pay late then what’s keeping all of my clients from paying late? And where I will be then? I’d be a poor man. I’ve become comfortable with how I live. And you have to admit that Whitehall does have distinction to it. It wouldn’t be the same if I were a common lawyer assigned to whatever drunk stumbles through the street. I think I’ve earned the right to be a bit picky with my payments. Besides, Mr. Worth knew my prices when he came to me.” 

“So, this was all caused by your own greed?” 

“I wouldn’t call it greed. I call myself _comfortable._ And there’s nothing wrong with having a little extra money around.”

“They do say that it’s easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than it is for a rich man to enter the Kingdom of God. You do know that, Mr Cushing?” 

Cushing smiled. “Are you a religious man?” 

Aziraphale paused. “You could say that.” 

Crowley began to wonder if he had gone too far. He could see an angry blush rise on Aziraphale’s face, creeping up his neck and to his cheeks. He didn’t want the angel to be in any actual distress. He didn’t want Aziraphale to get hurt or worked up and have to fixate on how terrible humans could be the day before Christmas. 

He feared, even more, Aziraphale using a miracle and throwing a wrench in his plans. Or using a miracle and a dozen eyeballs popping out with glowing, holy light, and scaring his actor to death. 

“What did Worth do when you told him you needed the money?” Crowley prompted. 

“He was angry. Naturally. He didn’t know where he was going to get the money from. He wouldn’t dare ask his sister-in-law—he’s been looking after his brother’s family. Making sure they’re cared for. It wouldn’t be right to ask them for money out of their meager savings. Even if they had enough to cover what he needed. He spent all of yesterday trying to find something he could pawn or any quick jobs he could complete.

“Mr. Worth came to my office late last night when couldn’t find enough money and told me that he would try borrowing money from a co-worker and asked me to not give up the case yet. First thing this morning, he was right outside my office, pacing like a mad man. He said he couldn’t find anyone to lend him the money. I suggested a bank. He said he had tried the banks, but he already owes them money from a previous loan. I said to him, ‘Without money, I can’t work.’ He called me an evil man after that. He said, ‘You’re fit to be a Dickens villain,’ and ran off. 

“I didn’t see him again until lunchtime when he told me that he found a way to get the money. He said he found someone to lend him the money, but he didn’t have it on him at the moment. He looked nervous. Pale and twitchy. He didn’t look me in the eyes, but he did say that he would try to get the money to me before I went home for the night. Whoever was lending him the money just needed a little more time. Something didn’t feel right with that, but I agreed. I told him he could have until 10 tonight—hours after I usually go home. I was feeling generous, you see, with Christmas being tomorrow.” 

“Generous, indeed,” Aziraphale huffed. 

“That was when I gave him the card with the time and instructions written on the back. Just in case he forgot. He didn’t seem very clear in the head when I sent him on his way.” 

“How do you think he found the money?” Crowley asked. 

“Well, there are men all over London willing to lend money out. There are men around who look for his sort. He’d have to work off his debt to them for another year, but he would have the money for tonight. I assumed that that was what he meant. But what did you say happened, Mr. Fell? He robbed a florist?” 

Aziraphale tapped his finger against his lips. “He came in through a smashed window, but he didn’t steal anything more than a single arrangement. And even then, he spilled half of it on his way out. I believe that something was planted there, and he only needed inside the shop to grab it. Do you think there was money hidden in the shop?” 

“Oh, who’s to say? These money-lenders are sneaky if they can’t meet with their victims face-to-face.” 

“That’s a shame. There’s been an awful lot of trouble caused by all of this. I do have to agree with Mr. Worth on one thing, I’m afraid.” 

“What’s that, Mr. Fell?” 

“You are an _evil_ man.” 

Crowley hid a smirk behind his hand. Cushing, to be fair, was not as cruel as he posed for Aziraphale. He had his soft spots, he told Crowley. But the demon was well-acquainted with his type. They bowed to greed every time. 

“Do you believe that he’ll still be here before 10?” Aziraphale asked. 

Cushing, who was truly put out by being called evil, nodded with a frown. “He was determined to get here.” 

“If you don’t mind, then, we’ll wait with you. Mr. Worth has some explaining to do, and I’d like to see to it personally that you promise to represent his brother in court. I think it’s the least he deserves.” 

Aziraphale rose and took a seat next to Crowley with a huff. Crowley sat back casually, at least satisfied that Aziraphale had taken the route he had anticipated. Of course, Aziraphale would wait it out. He would sit in that office for days if it meant settling so many nerves and wrong-doings.

Cushing lit a cigarette at his desk. 

“Are you alright, angel?” Crowley whispered. 

“The absolute _nerve_ of that… that _swine.”_

“Steady on. You know his type. Only concerned about getting his expensive tobacco stuffed in his cigarettes and his expensive port in his cupboard.” 

Aziraphale wrung his gloves in his hands. Crowley pulled them out of his fists before the stitching was ruined. 

“It’s alright, angel.” 

“But how can humans be so cruel? On Christmas of all days.” 

Crowley officially declared that his gift was too much for the angel. He should have known that Aziraphale was far too fussy of a character to look over what Cushing was doing—even if there truly was no brother in trouble. 

He cared about humans in a different way than Crowley did. He wanted them to be safe. Usually. There were times when some very nasty ones got what they deserved, and Aziraphale would turn a blind eye. Possibly towards a cafe. 

But Aziraphale’s was the guardian of the eastern gate. He was in Eden with the first two. He had a special connection with the humans that not even Crowley would ever fully get. And sure, they were sometimes annoying when they stayed too long in the bookshop. Or when they tried buying things in the bookshop. But Aziraphale loved them all nonetheless. 

While they waited for Worth, Aziraphale stared straight ahead. Occasionally, he looked to Crowley and offered a tight-lip smile that Crowley returned. 

When they returned home, Crowley would miracle the goose to be perfectly cooked with sides of potatoes and vegetables. He would pour Aziraphale a fresh glass of sherry and remind him that he was going to treat the angel to a shopping trip the day after Christmas. And hopefully, everything would be alright. 

There was a distant pounding at the door half an hour before 10. Cushing rose to his feet and walked out without a word. 

“I hope this doesn’t cause any more trouble,” Aziraphale said. 

Cushing returned with Worth close on his heels, rambling incessantly. He was a young man with sandy, unkempt hair, and freckles across his innocent face. His coat, out of fashion but treated well, was unbuttoned. His tie was askew. 

“He’s nothing more than a child,” Aziraphale said under his breath.

When Worth saw Aziraphale and Crowley, he froze.

“I didn’t know you would have guests.” 

“This is Mr. Fell and Mr. Crowley,” Cushing said. 

“I own the bookshop across from Mrs. Mabel’s flower shop,” Aziraphale said. Worth lowered his head. “We watched you break in.”

“Do you have the police with you?” 

“No. Mr. Cushing explained the situation to us, and I honestly don’t think you’re the one worthy of a jail cell tonight. I do think you owe us an explanation, though. And an apology that we can extend to Mrs. Mabel.” 

Worth looked between Aziraphale and Cushing and Crowley. He sat down.

“I couldn’t pay Mr. Cushing,” he said. “I tried to scrape together the money, but I couldn’t get it all so quickly. I found these men who promised to have something for me that I could pawn off. It was a sort of situation where they knew someone who knew someone who could help. 

“They told me they would drop off jewelry at the florist’s in a basket in the back of the shop. They’ve done it before. Your area is a commonplace to plant things. I tried going there while the shop was still open—I didn’t want to break in. I really didn’t. But I had been at work and then with my sister-in-law and nieces, and I couldn’t sneak away before the shop closed.” 

“What was planted in the shop?” 

Worth dug into his trouser pocket and pulled out a necklace and a pair of earrings. They were fake. Crowley had borrowed them from the local theatre’s prop’s department. “I was told to pawn them myself, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. They’re probably stolen from some poor woman, and I was going to turn them into the police. And I came here to tell Mr. Cushing that I’m sorry, but I can’t make the payment.” 

Worth had put on a wonderful show. He kept his head down, picked at his nails, and labored his breath as if he were holding back tears. 

“Don’t worry about the payment,” Aziraphale said. “I’ll pay for Mr. Cushing’s services. And I suggest in the future, that if you need any legal help, you choose a more honorable man to represent you or your family.” 

Worth’s eyes widened. “Are you serious, sir?” 

Crowley had anticipated this. With infinite money to be conjured out of thin air, he had considered Aziraphale would offer to pay. Just as he would eventually pay to get Mrs. Mabel’s window repaired.

“Yes. No one deserves what you’ve been through—though, I do still insist on an apology.” 

“Of course. I regret it terribly. I _deeply_ apologize. You can tell that woman that.” 

“Thank you. We’ll give Mrs. Mabel the message. Now, Mr. Cushing, you and I have a cheque to discuss.” 

And there were none, of course. So, when Aziraphale pulled out his cheque book (that had miraculously appeared in his coat pocket), Cushing held out his hand. 

“There’s been enough trouble,” he said. “And you’re right. Both of you. I’ve been quite cruel.” 

Aziraphale furrowed his brow. Crowley shifted in his seat. He was _also_ expecting Aziraphale to rejoice at the news as soon as he heard it. Not hesitate at the generosity.

“Why the sudden change of heart?” Aziraphale asked after a few seconds of tense silence. 

“Well,” Cushing looked to Crowley, “I’d just like to get home. It’s late. And it’s Christmas Eve.” 

“Yes, but you were defending yourself just an hour ago. You said that you can’t let a single payment be late—let alone forgiven.” 

“Let’s just say that your, er, response has made me rethink what’s best for myself.” 

Crowley jumped to his feet and tugged at Aziraphale’s elbow before he asked any more questions and made the men go even further off-script. “Let’s leave it. We have a goose at home.” Aziraphale eyed him suspiciously as well but nodded. “And we have a window that needs fixing.”

* * *

The goose was perfectly cooked, the sherry was plentiful, and both men had more than their fair share of both. 

Crowley laid stretched out on Aziraphale’s sofa, sound asleep. He looked quite innocent, Aziraphale thought, tuckered out from a full tummy and an exciting evening. 

It had begun to snow. Aziraphale sat at the window to watch it hit the empty streets and settle on the cobblestone. He expected it to stick and build up into a thick layer for children to play in in the morning, and so it did. 

Across the street, Mrs. Mabel’s shop window had been miraculously replaced and kept out the offending cold better than it had before. It was more durable than her last one. Aziraphale made sure that it would hold against any actor’s rocks in the future. 

What a thoughtful demon he had. No wonder the poor thing was so tired. He had planned perhaps the best gift Aziraphale had ever received—and a future shopping trip on top of it! 

“You do spoil me, dear boy,” he whispered. “I’ll have to outdo you next year.” 

The angel draped a blanket over Crowley, to ensure that no chill could reach him. Crowley would wake up in the morning, refreshed and warm and with a plate of breakfast and hot tea by his head and his present (a lovely scarf commissioned out of the finest wool) waiting for him at the table.

Aziraphale would see to it. 


End file.
